


Poetic Excess (Or, being an account of Sean's weird poems, a giant rat, and everyone finding true love)

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Empires
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something like a Regency, in which Max is a gentleman, Sean is a poet, and Tom has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetic Excess (Or, being an account of Sean's weird poems, a giant rat, and everyone finding true love)

The poet arrives on a Tuesday, while Max is practicing his music.

"You know what they'll say when you inherit," Danielle says from the sofa, where she's balancing a book and a fluffy white dog in her lap. "They'll say isn't it _charming_ that Lord Maxwell has a happy talent for the violin."

"And the piano," Max murmurs, squinting at his sheet music. "And the trumpet. And--"

"I'm aware, Max. I've lived here and listened to you practice for all these years." Danielle points at him, nearly dislodging the dog from her place. "But to everyone out there in society, you'll be dotty old Steger the dilettante."

Max rolls his eyes. "You have to go into society, too, Danielle. And you have it even worse than me. I can be an eccentric Lord, but you have to be a proper wife."

"I'll never be a society wife." Danielle smiles and snuggles the dog to her bosom.

"Right, you're going to run off with Tom."

"I am."

"Marrying the stableboy and stealing my best friend means you'll cut ties with Mother, Father, _and_ me, you know."

"You'll never leave me alone long enough, Max. And Tom's my best friend, not yours." She glances out the window. "When is the writer supposed to show up?"

"Poet." Max draws his bow slowly across the strings. "And I have no idea. But we're not having tea until he does."

"What made Mother decide on poetry?"

"Don't know. Don't know how she found this one, either."

"Tom suggested him to Father. They grew up together, or something. Tom says he's very good."

Max frowns. "Why did Tom tell you all that and not me?"

"Tom and I have intellectual discussions instead of spending six hours polishing saddles and drinking whiskey together in the tack room."

"Intellectual discussions," Max echoes. "Is that what you're doing in the hayloft for all those hours."

Danielle doesn't even bother to blush anymore. "Sometimes three intellectual discussions in a day."

"I hate you," Max sighs, putting his bow down. "I don't need to know these things."

"I don't need a lot of things, but that's life, Maxwell."

He stares out the window. "Maybe I'll run away, too."

"You can run away with Mother and Father's new pet poet," Danielle says. She's still laughing when the maid opens the parlor door and announces that Mr. Van Vleet, the poet, has arrived.

**

Mr. Van Vleet is of medium height and a strong build, with sandy-colored hair that falls over his forehead and bright blue eyes that catch at Max like the man is grabbing him by the arms.

"I'm surprised Mother and Father had a chance at you," Danielle says, looking him up and down like he was a horse. "I would think every older lady around would be fighting each other tooth and claw to be your patron."

Van Vleet laughs, clutching his cap anxiously. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Miss Steger."

"Of course you don't." Danielle rolls her eyes and tucks her dog under her arm before making a grand exit. Van Vleet's eyes track her out of the room and then return to Max's face, eyebrows darting up anxiously.

"I should meet your mother and father, since they'll be patronizing my work...?"

"They're out for a ride." Max tries not to sound cold about it. He's been told that his anxiousness often comes across as cold. "Should be back in an hour or two."

"Oh." Van Vleet shifts his weight. "I suppose we can't have tea until they come back."

"Well, we _can_ , you'll just have to have it twice."

"I would enjoy that." Van Vleet laughs, showing very white teeth in a wide mouth, and Max feels an unfortunately familiar twist and flip-flop in his belly.

Well, fuck.

"Tea," he says hopelessly. "Yes."

"I can read you some of my poems, perhaps."

"Of course." Of course. Van Vleet is beautiful, and his poems are probably brilliant, and Max is going to have to sit across from him at dinner for who knows how many months until his parents get tired of him, and the _entire time_ Max will silently be concentrating on his trousers and avoiding public shame and humiliation.

There is nothing he doesn't hate right now.

He rings the bell for the maid, since he can't think of anything else to do. Escaping by flinging himself out the window seems dangerous and unlikely. He's never been able to successfully fake a sudden illness. He's trapped.

He and Van Vleet sit and stare at each other in silence until the tea comes. Van Vleet's gaze never wavers. His eyes continue to be stupidly, paralyzingly blue.

"Would you like to hear a poem?" he asks finally.

"Please," Max says. Any break in the silence will be a relief.

Van Vleet stands and clasps his hands behind his back. "This is called 'Blood.'"

The poem isn't terribly long. It leaves Max somewhat lost for words.

"Oh," he says finally.

Van Vleet's face falls. "You don't like it."

"I do. I do. It has lots of imagery."

Van Vleet brightens. "Yes!"

"And it's about... murder."

Van Vleet frowns. "It's about love."

"The blood is a metaphor?"

Another frown. "Perhaps I don't quite get what you mean."

"Ah. Well." Max doesn't have the first idea of where to begin. "Never mind."

Van Vleet smiles and looks down at the floor. "I've been told that my enthusiasm outstrips my technique sometimes." His smile grows tentatively wicked, and he glances up at Max. "Not only when it comes to poetry."

Max has even less idea how to respond to that. He can only manage staring at Van Vleet, turning red, and gaping like a fish.

Fortunately, before either of them has to manage a change of subject, the maid returns to announce that Max's parents are home, and everything becomes terribly chaotic for a while.

Max has no time to himself until very late that evening, well after Van Vleet has left to go back to the city, his first monetary gift from Lord Steger tucked safely away in his bag. Then, however, Max has the entire sleepless night ahead of him to think about Van Vleet's smile, and his laugh, and the incredibly pressing question of if he had winked at Max in that frozen moment before the maid came in.

**

"So what did you think of Sean?" Tom asks the next day when Max comes down to the stable.

Max stares at him. "Who?"

"Sean Van Vleet. The poet." Tom shakes his head and steps into the next stall, pausing to kiss the horse on her nose. "I take it he didn't make much of an impression."

"No, he did, he did." Max shakes his head. "I just never heard his given name."

"I can't imagine hearing him called Mr. Van Vleet without laughing. I'll have to be sure to stay away from the house when he's here."

"I'll bring him down to say hello next time." Max looks at Tom more closely. "Or you can sneak up the back stairway to Danielle's room."

Tom's face stays carefully blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You have white dog hair all over you, Tom."

Tom's jaw twitches. "They could be horse hairs."

"We don't have any white horses."

"Damn." Tom sighs. "That dog."

"Don't worry about it. I'm the only one who would notice."

Tom begins brushing the horse again. "So what did you think of Sean?"

"He's very... personable."

"Did he read you his work?"

"Ah. Yes."

Tom gives him a sharp look. "Did you like it?"

"I'm not sure I understand it."

Tom laughs. "That is rarely, if ever, the point of Sean's poems. Enjoy them without attempting to cage them up with sense, that's my best advice to you."

Max leans in closer. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"What else do you want to know?"

"I'm not sure."

Tom frowns and brushes the horse's side for a moment. "He's a kindhearted man. Wouldn't hurt a fly, unless he's drunk, but even then the fight has to come to him. He doesn't go looking."

"Does he--" Max hesitates. "Does he flirt?"

Tom's head comes up sharply. "Did he make eyes at Danielle?"

"No! No. And even if he did, she isn't interested in anyone but you."

"Oh." Tom blushes a bit and turns his attention back to the horse. "Well."

"Which is going to be a problem when Mother and Father want to marry her off."

"I'm working on that."

"How?"

Tom gives him one of the cold, flat-eyed looks that come out of nowhere and always leave Max startled. "None of your business yet."

"Right. Good luck." Max shoves his hands in his pockets, grateful for the chance to pull himself together and exit the barn before he gives himself away any more and winds up embarrassed. "I should go."

"Aren't you planning to go for a ride?" Tom indicates the bay. "I'm grooming her for you, you know."

Max stares at the horse, who curls her nose and sneezes at him. "Thank you."

Tom grooms in silence for a moment, then stops. "Wait."

Max knows that tone. "I'll go get the saddle."

"You were asking if Sean might have been flirting with _you_."

"I'll just go back to the house, really. It's too sunny to ride. I need to practice my music."

"Max!"

But Max had made his escape, hurrying across the stableyard toward the house. "God bless it," he mutters, nearly tripping over a stone as he crosses the driveway to the lawn. "That poet is going to drive me insane."

**

A week later, the poet returned to the house for dinner and a salon of young poetic voices. Max tried to claim illness, but his mother would have none of it, and further, Danielle sold him out as being perfectly fine, which Max darkly suspected was on Tom's behalf for bolting from the barn like a cat with tail afire.

At any rate. Here he sits, watching down the length of the table while his mother refills Van Vleet's wineglass and those of Van Vleet's two friends, Tavarez and Robinson, both of whom had eaten more than their share of the dinner rolls, in Max's opinion. And Tavarez kept smiling at Danielle, who, the traitor, smiled _back_. Tavarez even had sweets in his pocket for the hateful little dog.

"Lily likes you," Danielle coos, and Max stabs his fork viciously into his filet of sole.

"Lily has great taste," Tavarez says with a wink. "I bet she'll have no truck with Sean, here, will she?"

"She bites his ankles," Danielle confirms, and the poets all laugh, Van Vleet putting his hands up as if in surrender.

"I'm quite alone at the moment!" he says. No one at all to take my side." His eyes cut down the table to Max. "What about you, young Lord Steger? Will you throw me a moment's compassion?"

"Oh." Everyone turns to look at Max, and he feels himself blush as red as the wine. "I don't know."

Tavarez laughs. "See, Sean? He's no victim of your charms."

Max is blushing so hard his face hurts. He looks down the table and catches Danielle's eye, hoping she'll see how frantic he is and bail him out. And she does, because she's a good sister.

"Let's have dessert, shall we?" she says, standing up. "Mother, dessert is in the drawing room, isn't it? With brandy and the gentlemen providing entertainment?"

"Yes," Lady Steger says, gesturing to the maids. "Please, Mr. Van Vleet, Mr. Tavarez, Mr. Robinson, follow us this way."

"Max." Danielle turns to him and shoves Lily into his arms. "Take her outside, would you? Then come join us? Be a doll."

Max does as he's told, fleeing into the darkness of the front lawn with Lily in his arms. He put her down on the grass and leans back against the porch railing, glaring down at his feet. Wonderful. "I looked like a fool," he tells his shoes. "Isn't that just... fantastic."

"It's not the first time or the last," comes a voice from his left, and Max nearly falls off the porch before he realizes it's Tom.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Max asks, trying to pull himself together. "You scared the daylights out of me."

Tom shrugs. "Watching the party."

"Watching?"

Tom nods at the dining-room window. "I could see you all from here. I was about to walk around to the drawing-room window when you came out with Lil."

"Oh." Max feels stupid all over again. "You watch us? Often?"

Tom rolls his eyes and takes a book of matches and a cigarette from his pocket. "Not often. Just sometimes. I wanted to see Sean."

"And Danielle," Max says uncharitably.

Tom fixes him with a sharp look as he lights his cigarette, then drops the dead math to the grass. "And Danielle." He draws a slow breath. "She looks beautiful tonight."

"I'll take your word for it."

Tom exhales smoke at him. "Sean _is_ flirting with you, by the way."

"What? How could you tell that through the window?"

Tom gestures vaguely at his face. "He has a look he gets when he's doing it. Also he was staring at you the entire time. He barely touched his roast."

"You're sure he was staring at me?"

Tom frowns at him. "Very sure. Why would I make that up?"

Max hopes that isn't actually a question he's expected to answer. "I should get back inside."

Tom blows smoke in his face. "Don't forget the dog."

**

The dog doesn't particularly want to come inside; Tom has to catch her after she leads Max on a chase three times up and down the lawn. Max is sweaty and disheveled when he walks into the drawing room, interrupting Robinson's reading.

"Sorry," Max says, dropping Lily into Danielle's lap and taking a brandy from the maid. "Sorry," he repeats at his mother's glare. He didn't do it on purpose. It was the dog's fault anyway.

Robinson's poems are good but not particularly interesting. Or perhaps it's just hard for Max to pay attention to them. He's very busy drinking brandy and trying to watch Van Vleet without openly staring at him.

Van Vleet listens to Robinson's poems intently, clapping wildly for each one. Max isn't sure if he's being mocking or sublimely sincere. Based on the number of times the maid refills his brandy, it's most likely the latter, though. Max can't imagine anyone could manage mockery while imbibing at that rate.

Tavarez reads next, but Max barely hears a word of it. The brandy's starting to catch up with him as well, and also Tom's head has appeared in the window just past Van Vleet, so Max can stare at both of them at once, Tom a ghostly apparition floating at the edge of his sight. It's terribly distracting.

At one point, Van Vleet catches him staring, and _smiles_ at him, which is wonderful and terrible at once. Tom had said that Van Vleet was flirting with him so matter-of-factly, like it was a perfectly obvious thing, and Max thinks that smile is obvious, too, but what if he's just drunk and indulging in wishful thinking and dooming himself to horrible embarrassment and an aching head in the morning? _Then_ what?

Much better to let the maid refill his glass again as Tavarez sits down and Van Vleet moves to stand in front of the fireplace.

"My first piece," Van Vleet says, placing his snifter on the mantle with exaggerated care, "is called 'Damn Things Over.'"

The poem is complex and evocative, as are the ones that follow it, and Max can't make any sense of them whatsoever. He's getting used to that feeling when it comes to Van Vleet. From the looks on their faces, the rest of his family is in the same dilemma. Still, they all applaud when Van Vleet finishes.

"Amazing," Lady Steger says. "Simply brilliant."

"Very avant-garde," Danielle adds.

"Let's have another round of brandy," Max's father says, gesturing to the maid.

Max doesn't say anything, but when Van Vleet looks over to him, he meets his eyes and nods thoughtfully. Van Vleet grins and salutes him, and Max's stomach goes fluttery. He hasn't been imagining it. They have a _connection_.

And he personally has had enough brandy to make him bold. He moves slowly over to Van Vleet's side as the room breaks up into small conversations. "Mr. Van Vleet?"

"Ah! Lord Maxwell. I hope you enjoyed the reading."

"I did. Very much. Your poems are so..." Max stares at him for a moment, and Van Vleet stares back, blue-eyed and unblinking. "Unique."

"Thank you! Thank you so much. I try very hard to bring a unique voice and presence. I'm not sure I always achieve that. I'm not really very good, in the grand scheme of things. I'm a hack, really."

The brandy makes Max more bold than he would otherwise ever be. "I think you're amazing."

"You do?" Van Vleet's face lights up. "I'm flattered. I've found you fascinating since the first time I saw you."

Max licks his lips, letting his giddiness sweep away what's left of his good sense. "Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to walk around the garden? It's cool outside, but I find it pleasant."

"I would love to." He grins, and Max finds the expression just as dazzling as before. "You do mean the two of us alone, I hope?"

"I do. Yes." Max can see Tom's face hovering in the window from the corner of his eye. He can only cross his fingers and hope that Tom will hear them approaching the door and hide behind a hedge or something. "Come, this way."

They walk the length of the garden, Max with his hands clasped behind his back and Van Vleet with them shoved in his pockets. Max dares to hope that they're both doing so for the same reason: to keep from reaching out to touch the other. It's terribly difficult not to, when they're alone in the silent garden, quite in the dark.

"Mr. Van Vleet," he says when the silence has stretched on for too long. "I think--"

"Please, call me Sean."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I prefer it."

"It's not improper?"

"You could not be improper with me, Lord Maxwell." Van Vleet--Sean--stops and turns to him. "It's simply impossible."

"Oh." Max takes a careful breath. "Then--then please, call me Max."

"I'm fairly sure that _would_ be improper. Unless, of course, you insist."

Max laughs and lifts his chin. "I do insist. Very much."

"In that case, I appreciate the honor, Max." Sean offers his hand and Max takes it, clasping it tightly in his own. The shock of Sean's warm skin-- _quite_ warm--rushes to his head, and he takes a step forward without a thought. Sean gives a soft sigh, as if he had been waiting for that, as if it's a _sign_ , and pulls Max close to him, bending his head for a kiss.

Such a kiss! Max is overwhelmed, by the press of Sean's lips and the strong curve of Sean's arm closing around his back, holding him close to Sean's body, which is also warm--hot, really--and so well-made. He's startled by the feel of Sean's muscles under his jacket. Who knew that a poet could also be so strong? But the kiss, that's the important thing. The warm heat of Sean's mouth on his, the feel of Sean's breath, the taste of his lips. Max can only think in the cheap phrasing of bad novels: he is _undone_.

He moans against Sean's mouth and Sean laughs softly, his free hand moving up to cup Max's face. "Max," he says, his voice low and rough. "You're beautiful."

Max doesn't know how to reply to that, but fortunately Sean kisses him again before a reply is necessary. Max sways against him and Sean turns them both, guiding Max with the arm around his waist. It takes Max a moment to realize that Sean is moving them into the shadow of a tree, and maneuvering Max so that he can lean back against the trunk for support.

"Sean," he gasps. "Sean."

"Yes, Max? Tell me how I might please you."

Max's mind goes absolutely blank. "Er. Kiss me again?"

Sean does, just as passionately as the first time, and Max's arms move of their own accord to embrace him, hands moving cautiously in circles on Sean's back. Sean groans encouragement and pushes one of his own hands up under Max's jacket.

"What are you doing?" Max gasps.

"You don't like to be touched?" Sean withdraws his hand and kisses Max's cheek. "A shame, but as you wish."

"No. No. It's... it's fine. I was just. Startled." Max licks his lips and stares into Sean's eyes. So close to his own, and still so _blue_ , it ought to be legislated against. "Please, do it again."

Sean laughs softly and does, with both hands this time, palms sliding warm and heavy over Max's thin shirt. "I've wanted to do this so much, Max."

"You've only seen me twice."

"I believe in instinct. In the passion of the moment." Sean meets his eyes again, his hands drifting down to the waist of Max's trousers. " _That_ is the thing that makes poetry."

"Oh," Max says. Sean smiles and kisses him again, his thumb brushing lightly across Max's groin, and that was the last pleasant memory Max had of their garden tryst before he twists away from Sean and vomits in the hedgerow.

**

Max wakes up in his own bed, with the blankets pulled up to his chin and Danielle's dog sitting on the pillow, staring at him.

"Lily," Max groans, covering his eyes with his hand to block the terrible stabbing light coming in the window. "Go away."

"She's protecting you." Tom sounds entirely too amused. Max puts his other hand over his eyes as well. "She was very worried."

"You go away, too."

"Not even a thank-you for helping Sean haul you in from the garden?"

"Please tell me you're joking."

Tom is silent until Max lifts his hands and peers at him. Then he shrugs. "No."

"Oh, god." Max rolls over, burying his face in the pillows. "Go away."

"Still no thank-you?"

"Thank you. Go away."

Max hears Tom laugh and drag a chair across the floor. That is the opposite of going away. "You went out to the garden with Sean."

It's on the tip of Max's tongue to snap _obviously_ at him as viciously as he can, but he forces himself to take a breath and instead reply, "We were talking."

"Yes, I saw that. Talking enthusiastically."

Max hates Tom. "You were watching us?"

"You were more interesting than what was going on inside."

"What, Danielle was still flirting with Tavarez?"

There's a moment of silence that leaves Max wondering if he scored too direct a hit before Tom says, "You and Sean need to be more careful."

"I'm sure he has no interest in doing that again. It was a joke for him. A game." The words all taste bitter on Max's tongue. He needs to say them over and over again until he believes them and all foolish fantasies are cleaned out of his head.

Tom sighs impatiently. "You're an idiot if you think that. And I know you're not an idiot. So you don't really think that. You saw how Sean looks at you."

"Like I'm--"

"Like you're the only person in the room. He's smitten."

"Smitten." Max turns over slowly and stares at Tom. "Really?"

"As far as I can see." Tom shrugs. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"What _can_ I do about it? I threw up on him."

"Not _on_ him. You splashed him a little."

Max stares up at the ceiling. "There's no recovery from that."

"Of course there is. Sean's done worse himself." Tom leans closer. "But it'll be hard to do it here, with your parents and the servants hovering."

"I should take him to the barn next time he's here?"

"Why wait?"

"I should take him to the barn... while he isn't here?"

Tom glares at him. "You should go find him."

"I don't even know where he lives! Somewhere in the city. Somewhere artistic, I assume."

"You're being deliberately dense, Lord Maxwell." Tom stands up and offers his hand. "I know exactly where he lives. And I have access to horses." He raises an eyebrow. "Convenient, isn't it?"

Max eyes him for a moment before throwing the bedclothes back. "I assume that means you'll be expecting something from me in return."

"Only my heart's desire."

Max stops. "I'm not helping you kidnap Danielle."

Tom rolls his eyes and stomps over to the wardrobe. "Believe me, that won't be necessary. Here. Put these on. I haven't got all day."

**

Tom and Max ride into the city just after dark. Max looks dubiously around the outskirts neighborhood that Tom guides them to. "Really? Here?"

"It's artistic, like you said."

"It's disgusting."

"Art is often disgusting." Tom stops outside a faded brick building and dismounts. "We can leave the horses here."

"Can we? Can we really?"

"The people who live here are actually very kind and reliable. That's how Sean hasn't been stabbed to death yet."

Max stares at him. "That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence."

"Trust me."

Max dismounts and ties his horse, then follows Tom inside. There's a bored-looking man sitting on the stairs inside; after Tom hands him a coin, he informs them that Mr. Van Vleet went out an hour ago and he doesn't expect to see him again until the next day.

"Where would he go?" Max asks, baffled.

The man giggles. Tom rolls his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What?" Max frowns at both of them. "Tell me."

"He's at Luciani's," the man says. "I'd love to see this one walk into Luciani's."

"He'll be fine," Tom says firmly. "Don't get excited."

"What's Luciani's?" Max feels very out of the loop.

"Tell me, lad," the man says, leaning toward Max. "Are you a friend of the poppy?"

Max blinks. "What?"

Tom grabs Max by the shoulder and steers him toward the door. "Luciani's is an opium den."

"A _what_?"

"You heard me. Don't screech, Max. We're in public."

"What is Sean doing in an opium den?"

"Smoking opium, I imagine." Tom checks the horses and nods to himself. "All right. Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

Tom stops and frowns at him. "Where do you think? We're going to Luciani's to get Sean."

"But..."

"But nothing. It's just a little opium. He's fine. You can talk about your feelings and we'll all get dinner."

Max is fairly sure that it will be nothing remotely resembling that simple, but Tom is already walking again, so he follows along.

**

Luciani's is more or less exactly what Max expects from an opium den, if he expects anything. He'd never put much thought into the subject before. But this is certainly dark, seedy, and debauched, with people lounging about in various states of bliss and dishevelment.

Tom surveys the room with a sour expression that inexplicably flutters into a smile. "Surely you don't approve of this," Max says.

"I'm recalling my misspent youth, Max. Give me just a moment for nostalgia." Tom draws in a deep breath and lets it go. "All right. Let's speak to the proprietor."

Luciani himself turns out to be a pleasant-faced man with a roaring laugh. He likes to touch people--or at least, he likes to touch Max and Tom.

"I've known Tom for years," he informs Max, flinging his arm around Tom's shoulder. "And Sean since we were children."

"Do you know where he is?" Max asks, attempting to dodge the hand clasping at his own.

"He's in the back room with others of his own sort, having a lovely time, I'm sure."

"His own sort," Max echoes. "Poets?"

Luciani stares at him. "Some of them are, I suppose. Or I think Beckett is this week, anyway."

"Oh, he's here?" Tom asks with a flare of interest. "Is he--looking well?"

"Quite well." Luciani grins. "Would you like to see him privately? I can set that up for you."

If Max didn't know better, he'd say that Tom looks wistful. "No. No, better not. We're just here for Sean."

"Then Sean you shall have." Luciani pats Tom on the cheek and shoulder simultaneously, beams at him and Max in turn, and vanishes into the back room in a cloud of smoke. Quite literally. It billows out when the door opens.

"Who's Beckett?" Max asks when the silence stretches on for too long.

"Actor. Old friend. Poet, apparently."

"I had no idea you had this whole other life."

Tom pins him with a look. "It's true, I don't spend every breathing moment covered in horsehair and shit."

Max winces. "Touche."

"Don't worry about it." Tom's gaze moves back to the door and Max rocks back and forth on his heels, wondering what to say.

His decision might not be the wisest, but it's what comes to him. "There are also the moments you spend covered in my sister."

Tom gasps, wheezes, and nearly goes over like a felled tree. Max isn't sure if he should congratulate or be appalled by himself.

"Sometimes you surprise me, Max," Tom says when he's regained his breath. "I'm not sure Luciani is coming back. Let's go find Sean ourselves."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Are you sure it's a bad one?"

They stare at each other for a moment. "Fine," Max says finally. "After you."

Tom glares at him, pushes the door open, and strides into the cloud. Max pulls his scarf across his face as a filter and follows.

The back room of Luciani's is less crowded than the main room, or perhaps the occupants are merely closer together, Max realizes after a moment. Quite close together, and cheerful about it.

Except, as it turns out, for Van Vleet, who stands at the center of the room with a notebook in hand, reading aloud with considerable passion.

"--and sometimes I do find myself lost in the morning, and sometimes I do find myself lost in the night," he declares, then lowers the book and casts a beseeching look at three men lounging on a couch nearby. "Well? Is it powerful?"

"Absolutely," murmurs the one in the center, a tall fellow with thrillingly dark eyes. "It makes me see visions."

The short man on the left rolls his eyes. "Everything makes you see visions."

"I felt the urgent proximity of hell with every word," says the painfully thin man on the right. "Truly magnificent, Sean."

Tom snorts. "Beckett, you pretentious angel. Haven't changed a bit."

"Tom!" Van Vleet throws his arms wide, flinging his notebook into the lap of the short man, who immediately begins to page through it. "Tom, it's been so long!"

"Not very long," Tom says patiently. "Come on now, old friend, I've brought Max with me and we're going to buy you dinner."

"Is that an offer for all of us?" the dark-eyed man asks.

"No." Tom turns his back deliberately to the couch and holds his hand out to Van Vleet. "Come along."

"I can't possibly, Tom. I'm in the throes of passion for my work." Van Vleet runs his hand through his hair and turns to Max, his eyes wide and staring. Max feels the same frantic madness he felt in the garden, and can see the same yearning on Van Vleet's face. "And Lord Steger, surely you shouldn't be here. This place does not fit your station."

Max pulls his scarf down from his face. "I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Van Vleet. Needed to, truly."

That wide, dazzling smile. "I asked you to call me Sean, I'm quite sure."

"And I asked you to call me Max," Max replies, returning the smile.

"This is the most charming thing I've seen in days," the short man says, staring at them over the edge of the notebook.

"You're a romantic," Beckett tells him.

"I am. Read this poem, it's lovely."

Tom sighs. "Give Sean his notebook back so we can go to dinner. Write your own words, you three vultures."

"You'd miss us if we were gone," the dark-eyed one says philosophically. "Go with your friends, Sean. We'll see you again."

Sean is still gazing raptly at Max. "Let me read to you."

"Read to him later," Tom says firmly. "We have a timetable to keep."

Max frowns. "We do?"

"Yes. We're right on the edge of late, actually." Tom hooks his arm through Sean's and tugs him toward the door. "Let's go."

**

Dinner is strange. Tom is distracted, looking around constantly and speaking in vague, cryptic sentences that Max doesn't understand in the slightest. Sean is still heavily sedated with opium, making him even more vague and cryptic. Max wants to slap them both.

Instead he focuses on his meal, which is rather good if a bit common. He also has several pints of beer, in the hopes that perhaps being as distracted as they are will make them make more sense.

It doesn't, but he doesn't care as much.

Sean leans heavily on him as the meal winds down, and Max finds that he rather likes that. Sean is fantastically warm, body heat radiating out through his jacket. "Are you well?" Max asks quietly.

"I wish to touch greatness, Max," Sean murmurs.

"I'm sure you will."

"And also to take you to bed."

Max chokes on his beer. "Oh!"

Tom gives them a sharp look. "What are you two talking about?"

Sean lifts his head to smile at Tom. "I want to take Max to bed."

"Oh god, don't tell him that," Max whispers, tugging his scarf up again to hide the sudden heat in his face.

"Never be ashamed of love, Max. It is a rare, precious, glowing thing."

Tom rolls his eyes. "He'll be like this for hours."

"He's like this all the time," Max says. "From what I've seen."

"That's true. Right now he's only _more_ so." Tom finishes his beer and takes his watch from his pocket. "Right. Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"To my room," Sean declares grandly.

"Actually, yes." Tom tucks the watch back in his pocket again. "To that very place, my friend."

"Tom. Let me embrace you."

"Not right now."

"When we get to the room, then."

"Yes, all right." Tom puts an arm around Sean's waist and tugs him to his feet. "Right, now, you know how to do this. First the left foot, then the right, down the street we go. Max, leave some money for the bill and catch up to us."

"You're up to something," Max informs their departing backs. "I don't like it and I won't help."

"You're already helping," Tom calls back. "More than you know. Now don't waste time."

Max hates being used in mysterious schemes. But he hates an unpaid bill more, so he counts out the money and leaves it there on the table before hurrying into the street.

**

Max tugs his jacket tighter around himself and frowns into the inadequate light of the street. Tom's mysterious schemes are his least favorite of all the mysterious schemes in the world.

When they arrived at Sean's building, Tom paused long enough to adjust Sean's weight against himself and snap his fingers at Max. "Wait down here."

"What?"

"I need you to wait here while I take him upstairs."

"Why?"

"Just _do_ it, Max."

"Am I waiting for a particular reason? For you to come downstairs again, or for someone to arrive, or for Saint Swithin's Day? Please, enlighten me, Tom, even though you haven't seen fit to enlighten me about anything else all damn night."

Tom stares at him for a moment. "Why disturb a good thing?" he says finally, and takes Sean inside, letting the door bang closed firmly behind them.

Tom is a terrible person, Max thinks, staring at their horses dozing quietly in the street. One who apparently intends to make Max stand waiting out here all night. Unjust. Unfair. Ridiculous.

"There he is," a familiar voice cuts through the darkness. "Right where Tom said he'd be. Max!"

Max lifts his head and stares in utter confusion as a woman steps out of the darkness--a very familiar young woman--his sister. "Danielle?"

"Yes, of course, who else?" she says tartly, adjusting the bag over her arm. Max can just see the flash of Lily's eyes and white face within it. "Now then. Where is he?"

"Tom?"

"Of _course_ , who _else_?" She stomps her foot and Max blinks as another figure emerges behind her, also familiar.

"Tavarez?"

"You should address him as _my Lord_ ," Danielle says as Tavarez touches his hat. "He's a Duke, you know."

"I thought he was a poet."

"All part of the game, my friend," Tavarez says.

"What game is that, exactly?"

"The great game that we all play, the wondrous game of our lives."

"I'm afraid I missed when the rules were read out."

"There are no rules, only amusement."

Max fights a very strong urge to throw himself to the pavement and weep in confusion. "Oh."

"Max," Danielle says firmly. "Take us up to Tom, please."

Max does, hoping to find clarity at the other end of the stairs, but instead there's only more confusion. Sean is unconscious in bed, Tom and Danielle fall into each other's arms without a shred of dignity, and Tavarez stands by the doorway beaming and watching it all with a weird air of proprietorship.

Max stands beside him and casts about for a question. "You're a Duke?"

"I am. Not of anything important, but there's enough money to live on quite well."

"And impersonate a poet."

Tavarez glances at him. "I _am_ a poet. I write poetry, therefore, I am a poet. I'm just not a starving artist like your friend."

"Ah. That makes sense." It does, actually. Nothing else here does, though. "And what are you doing with my sister and Tom?"

Tavarez takes a cigarette case from his pocket. "What? Oh. Taking them out of the country."

Max chokes on air for a moment. "What?"

"Taking them abroad as my bosom companions. Helping them to get married and get established. I consider myself a patron of young love."

"You can't take them _away_ ," Max says weakly.

"It's all arranged." Tavarez lights a cigarette and puffs calmly. "Don't worry. You'll have your poet to keep you warm."

"I think I need to sit down," Max says faintly, just before his knees give out.

**

Max comes back to himself lying on his back on the floor, staring up into Tom and Danielle's concerned faces.

“Oh, good,” Danielle says. “You're not dead.”

“Of course I'm not dead,” he mutters, sitting up slowly.

Tom places his hand on Max's shoulder to steady him. “You fainted. Julio's gone to get you some water.”

“Julio?”

“Lord Tavarez.”

“Oh.” Max thinks for a moment, then punches Tom in the arm. It's a weak punch, but it gets Tom's attention. “He's going to take you both away!”

Tom has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Well. Yes.”

“How could you?” That isn't the real question, he realizes, and looks at his sister. “Danielle! How could _you_?”

“We have to, Max,” she says, putting her hand on his other shoulder. “It's the only way we can start a life together, completely free of anything except what we want.”

Max can't deny the yearning in her voice, or the love in her eyes when she looks away from him to Tom. They've joked about this for so long, but now that it's here, he knows it's real. And on some level, he's always known that it would come to this someday. She's right. It is the only way.

“I'll miss you,” he says. “I'll miss you so much.”

“We'll miss you too.” Tom's voice is rough, and he grips Max's shoulder more tightly. “We couldn't leave until we knew you'd have someone to look out for you. Look after you.”

Max looks at him blankly. “Who?”

“Sean, of course.”

Max and Danielle turn their heads in unison to look at Sean, passed out in the bed.

“He's looking out for me?” Max asks.

“Well, not at this particular moment, but once he's awake again. He'll never let you down, Max. He'll always be there.” Tom stands up and offers Max his hand. “I never lie to you, you know that.”

Again, Max finds that he can't argue. He gets to his feet and pulls Danielle into an embrace. “Take care of yourself,” he whispers. “Write me when you can.”

“I will,” she promises. “Practice your music, and don't let Mother and Father worry you too much.”

The door opens and Tavarez steps in, cutting off the moment before Max can get too emotional. “Oh, good,” Tavarez says, smiling at them. “He's awake. Here's the water, and I'm sorry, but Thomas, Danielle, we really must be going.”

“I can't believe it,” Max whispers.

“Be brave.” Tom pulls him into a fast embrace. “Be well. Look after Sean.”

“I thought you said he'd be looking after me.”

Tom gives him a stern look. “Return the favor.”

And then in a whirl of coats and farewells, they're gone.

**

Max awakens in the morning with vague memories of Danielle embracing him, Tavarez placing a card on the table with the name of a man who would always be able to reach him, and Tom holding his hand for a moment before walking out the door.

He also awakens with Sean's furnace-hot body pressed up to his back, which is how he knows that he is still in Sean's room. In Sean's bed, in point of fact.

"Did all of that really happen?" he wonders aloud, staring at the wall just inches from his face.

"All of what?" Sean murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of Max's neck. Max gasps and jumps, making an aborted effort to pull away. There's nowhere to go but into the wall.

"All of... yesterday. Last night."

"I'm afraid I don't remember much of it." Sean's arm slips around Max's waist, tugging him back closer. "Did we make love?"

Max clears his throat. "Ah. No. You were unconscious as soon as we got back here, I think. I fainted shortly before Tom, Danielle, and Mr. Tavarez left for Europe, and after they left I fell asleep."

"They left for Europe?" Sean sits up a bit and looks down at him. "I had no idea."

"Apparently they're going to ménage their way across the Continent, or something, I honestly don't know." Max knows he sounds bitter. He can't help it. The whole thing was very startling. "I've lost my sister and my best friend."

"And Julio." Sean slumps back to the mattress, his arm still firmly about Max's waist. "How shocking."

"That's the word for it. Shocking. I am quite shocked."

They lie there in silence for a while. "You're quite certain we didn't make love?" Sean asks finally.

Max forces himself to take a deep breath and let it go before he answers. He will not snap at Sean in frustration. "Absolutely certain."

"Is it wrong of me to say I wish we had?"

"Not wrong, no. Rather confusing given the circumstances."

Sean lifts his head again, looking at Max with terrible earnestness. "I don't mean to dismiss your grief. Only that I truly, truly want to make love to you."

Max can't think of a response to that. "Oh."

"Tenderly. Slowly. Passionately."

Max's trousers have a response to that, and it isn't helpful. "I... I'm flattered, Sean."

Sean cups Max's cheek in his hand. "May I kiss you, Max?"

Absolutely nothing has made sense in the past forty-eight hours or so. Perhaps, Max thinks, it's time to give in to the madness of the universe.

"Absolutely," he says. "Please do."

**

Sean's lovemaking is neither tender nor slow. It is, however, passionate. Quite passionate. Passionate enough to leave Max breathless, sweaty, and thoroughly startled by the idea that the calm and sedate world he's known can contain such feelings and sensations.

Sean lies atop him, stuck to Max's skin with sweat and less mentionable fluids. "Max," he says, and presses a kiss to Max's mouth. "I'm so glad to be here with you."

"I'm glad, too." Sean's eyes are still wildly, distractingly blue, and from this close his smile is inhuman. "You're beautiful, you know, Sean."

Sean blushes and pulls away, still smiling. "I'm nothing compared to you."

"We could argue about that all day, I think."

"Let's not waste the time. Arguing is time we could spend making love. Or going to breakfast."

"I could use some breakfast," Max admits, sitting up slowly. "Last night's excitement and this morning's--ah--excitement have left me a bit... what is that?"

Sean brushes his hair off his forehead and follows Max's gaze. "What is what?"

"Is that a rat, Sean? Or is it a... a small dog? It's the proper _size_ to be a dog, but it _looks_ very much like a rat."

"Oh!" Sean laughs. "That's Beulah. She lives here with me. We have an arrangement."

Max stares in horror. "What sort of arrangement?"

"I feed her and she keeps smaller rats from moving in. It works quite well."

Max can't think of a thing to say to that. He closes his eyes and concentrate on breathing, until after a moment he feels Sean's arms wrap around him, steady and warm. “Let me read you poetry over breakfast, Max.”

Max smiles. “You can read to me whenever you want.”

Sean hugs him tighter. “That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

"I understand nothing about your life, Sean," Max says, leaning into him.

Sean kisses his cheek. "But you're rather intrigued, aren't you?"

"For no reason whatsoever," Max admits, "yes, I am."


End file.
